Erard's pitiful, yet noble, death was only the beginning of the tragedy. Doctor Herschall would now glut his thirst for revenge with Frank's blood—and with her own!
No other explanation could she imagine for the surgeon's delay in revealing Sanderson's identity. He could easily prove that the so-called Herr Lieutenant August Gessler was actually an American aviator, flying for France.
His suspicion of the young man, perhaps previously aroused, had become conviction when Carl had brought to him the canteen with Frank Sanderson's partly obliterated name on it. He had then proved his case by finding the old scar on the American's shoulder.
Both Belinda and the man she could not help but love were helpless in the hands of the Prussian surgeon. And could mercy be expected of one who did not know what mercy meant?
Belinda expected at any moment to be sent for by the Herr Doktor for the threatened interview in his lodge. Fate, however, intervened.
Since before noon there had been increased activity along the battlefront. The British on one side, the French on the other of the German wedge driven into this territory, were increasing their pressure. They had brought up more heavy guns. The French 75s and the British mortars were tearing great gaps in the new trenches of the German line.
So, the ambulances rolled more frequently and the wounded began pouring into this hospital station in such numbers as they had only once before and under the French régime.
Doctor Herschall came directly from the château where the court had been held to the operating ward. He threw off his helmet, cloak and outer garments, got into a fresh smock, rolled the sleeves back upon his hairy arms, bathed hands and arms in an antiseptic wash, and called for his case of polished instruments.
He called, too, for Nurse Genau.
"Send her here at once," he commanded. "She is worth all these other women put together. She knows what I want—and when I want it."